


Victory's Eve

by momentarycarbonstory



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: CritRole Bang, CritRole Reverse Bang, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 16:22:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8630875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momentarycarbonstory/pseuds/momentarycarbonstory
Summary: Three years after the defeat of Thordak and the fall of the Briarwoods, Percival Fredrickstein von Mussel Klossowski de Rolo III and Lady Vex'ahlia, Baroness of the Third House of Whitestone, Grandmistress of the Gray Hunt celebrate their engagement.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by katelyn-r-c's absolutely beautiful Perc'ahlia art drawn for the CritRole Reverse Bang 2016 visual art/writing exchange!

It was a crisp, cold night in Whitestone. The moon began its slow crawl skyward, shining pale and bright as the last of the sun burned over the horizon line. Snow lay freshly fallen, the land quiet and still save for the cries of a few birds.

It wasn’t unusual to see workmen trudging from the quarries back to their homes at this time, or the shops starting to close one by one. The tavern would be stoking its fires, laughter and good smells wafting out with each ring of the door’s bell. But tonight, the square lay neglected. All activity was concentrated around the castle where every window was flooded with light. The dull, gray stones were festooned with various wreaths and ribbons, smoke rising from each chimney, standards bearing the de Rolo crest fluttering in the wind. An air of excitement sat heavy over the city. For today was Victory’s Eve.

Every year since the Briarwoods’ defeat and the slaying of the Thordak, the citizens of Whitestone took a day aside from Winter’s Crest to celebrate the freedom of their town. The castle’s doors were thrown wide open for all to gather and rejoice, partaking in festivities as survivors and equals.

High above the entrance, Percy could see the streams of lanterns and colorfully-dressed guests flowing into his home. The noise carrying from downstairs had certainly grown. He’d have to fulfill his duties as a host soon.

His gaze drifted to his window as he wrestled with his left cuff link. There was once a time when he’d looked on the lands of his family and seen only ruin. Sometimes he thought he would wake up and still feel the brokenness of it all tugging at him from miles away, powerless to change anything.

(Happily enough, no matter how many times Percy pinched himself, he was not waking up from this good dream any time soon.)

He turned his gaze from the outside to the glass itself, catching the reflection of his face half-thrown in shadow. Times had changed. As had he. There were a few more scars on him now. He’d gotten less stiff, ingrained etiquette and posture aside. Gone were the days of revenge and the aimless nights spent searching for purpose while dark claws scratched at his mind. He had hope. A sister. His people. A family. And—

…And…

A few knocks, and he snapped his attention back to his cufflinks. “Er…yes! Yes, come in?”

A servant’s head appeared through the open door. “Your Lordship? The Baroness wishes to inform you that she is ready.”

Percy’s response was a distracted one at best, mind more preoccupied with hunting down his coat. “Which one?”

“The third one,” the servant replied patiently. “And check under the vanity, sir.”

“Oh. Right, yes! Thank you.” The servant remained unmoved. “…Did she say anything else?”

“She...also wishes to inform Your Lordship that she knows he has a good head for time, and that he should not continue to be ‘the late one’.”

He chuckled, fishing his coat up from the floor. “Duly noted. Please inform My Lady that I will be at her side in five minutes. I hope she can stand to wait that long,” he added, almost to himself.

“Shall I tell her all of this exactly as you say it, sir?”

“Did she say to relay her own news in this way?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another chuckle. “You may tell her,” he resumed work on his cuff link, “verbatim, that if she continues to interrupt I will be obliged to take fifteen minutes instead of five, and that I believe in her patience.”

The servant, quite used to these messages, merely bowed his head with a smile and closed the door.

* * *

  
Seven minutes later Percy walked down the foyer of the main entrance, shoes clicking briskly across the marble floor. “Hello?”

The din of conversation was apparent through the double doors leading to the ballroom. But other than the guards, not a soul was in sight.

“…I know I’m late!”

Silence.

“Don’t tell me you actually went in without m—”

A series of hurries steps quickly grew louder, as if someone was running, and she suddenly appeared at the top of the foyer stairs.

He knows her best by watchful eyes and callused fingers, her sharp arrows and quickness; to associate her completely with the word “soft” would be a grave error. But “soft” is all he can think when faced with the yards of fluttering light gold and cream, the touch of quiet blue he himself has worn now sitting on her shoulders in austere Whitestone fashion. Her hair fell with a careless grace he knew only her to be capable of, and his mouth twitched upward at the sight of (slightly disheveled) owlbear feathers tucked behind her ear.

She cleared her throat, rearranged her skirts, and attempted to appear collected.

Three years, he thought quite suddenly.

Three whole years. Three full passages of seasons with clear skies, granted by a hunter whom he knew loved gold but hadn’t asked for a thing in return for helping slay Vorgul, so glad to see the burden of fear ease off the shoulders of the city. Three years since she had helped him overthrow the oppressors of his home. Three years since she had told him her heart was hers, and he had returned it with his own. And now here was the same slayer of things that’d threatened his home, brave warrior and love of his life, in the colors of his land, looking exactly like nothing except herself.

Speaking suddenly became an ancient construct, his mouth dry and rusted half-open. Movement ground to a halt. Breathing didn’t follow only because it was necessary to live.

Impossibly, she moved and spoke just fine, and met him at the bottom of the stairs. “Do you like it?” she asked, twirling around once.

It’s a confident question, arch sweet with her smile, but he can see the anxiousness lurking just behind her excitement. Wondering if this is good enough, if it will be enough.

His heart swelled near to bursting. This, she, will always be more than “good enough”.

He took her hand very gently and brought it up to his lips, kissing it with all the humble reverence of one holding the greatest treasure. “You look beautiful, dearest, most beloved Vex’ahlia.”

Pink crept up her cheeks and flared on the tips of her ears. Any pretense of composure or dignity melted between them as she ducked her head, laughing.

“Are the others here?”

“They already went inside. We’re the last ones to arrive.”

“We’re fashionably late. I’m certain they won’t mind.”

Vex scoffed, reaching out a moment to adjust his cravat. “You also look beautiful by the way.”

His composure was admirable, or would have been if not for the flare of pink over his own face. “Flattery will get you everywhere. ...And thank you.”

She straightened his collar, smiled back up at him, and took his arm. “You’re welcome.”

“...Shall we?”

“I’d love to, darling.”

Standing tall and assured, both waited as the doors opened, arm in arm, and at once were engulfed in noise. Boisterous laughter and brisk conversation came in waves with the rhythmic thud of footsteps to music. Crystalline chandeliers spilled over with light. Rows of tables were laden with dish after dish of delicacies or armies of bottles brought up from the cellar. Floors shone with the reflections of bounding feet and swirling skirts and coat tails.

As soon as they entered, heads began to turn, and before long noise died down.

“Announcing the engaged Lord Percival Fredrickstein von Mussel Klossowski de Rolo the Third, Lord of Whitestone, and Lady Vex’ahlia, Baroness of the Third House of Whitestone, Grand Mistress of the Grey Hunt!

The crowd erupted with applause, loudest of all from the various members of Vox Machina, and she couldn’t help grinning.

The standard congratulations began soon after. There was no shortage of hands eager to wring hers as hopes and blessings spilled forth. She and Percy were tugged in separate directions more than once, bombarded with questions or requests for stories of how they met or when their feelings culminated. A few members of higher society asked the usual questions of dates for the wedding and plans for the future.

It was a blur. But to comparing it to her old home would have done the place an injustice. Courtly life here was similar, with its lords and ladies and the occasional superiority that came with seeing her pointed ears. But at its heart, Whitestone breathed less of the artifice of her first home. Its inhabitants were more reachable, more real. And so was every bit of their kindness.

By the time they finished speaking with most of the crowd, nearly two hours had passed. She was more than grateful when Percy lead her to a table instead of the dance floor.

Vex sank gratefully into her chair, feet aching. “Not that I don’t enjoy parties…”

“But perhaps we should think twice before holding another?”

“Oh no, it’s lovely. I meant that next time we announce our engagement, maybe when there are less questions.”

“Next time it is,” he replied, handing her a very full glass of wine. “No one’s given you trouble have they?”

“Not too much. They don’t know me so I knew people would ask questions.”

“Nothing like Syngorn, I hope?”

And there was the Percy she knew. The line forming between his brows that only came from concern, eyes flicking over her face, open and honest. Her own eyes stung, just briefly. “Not at all. Opposite. So the opposite.” She chewed on the inside her cheek. “They’re lovely you know,” she said suddenly. “The people here. Most of them mean what they say, and they care about you.”

There’s no missing his sudden intake of breath, struck by the novel realization that he was more than just a sovereign to the people he’d helped save.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers. “…Thank you.”

“...Percival?”

“…Yes?”

“…Can we escape for a few minutes?”

“Feeling overwhelmed?”

“A bit.” She bit down a laugh as she caught sight of Vax and Keyleth trying to remain coordinated amidst the other dancers. Grog’s voice boomed out an encouragement, followed closely by Pike’s cackling. Scanlan’s hands waved madly to conduct the musicians. She could almost hear the music getting faster. “We both know this party will go on until past midnight, no one will miss us. I just want to catch my breath. …I also want to have you to myself. Just for a little.”

“I see.” He gave the ballroom a glance. “Not that I don’t approve, but sneaking out during one’s engagement party, I've heard, is quite scandalous Lady Vex'ahlia.”

“Then I'm please to be a terrible influence.”

She gathered her skirts, gave him a wink, and nudged her head to follow.

He didn’t waste a moment.

* * *

  
Percy was certain Cassandra and at least five servants saw them absconding from the ballroom like a pair of prepubescent teenagers. But if anyone knew, they obviously weren’t telling. He and Vex made it out the door to the servant’s quarters in five minutes flat with cloaks tied on and weapons tucked away, and not a single interruption between them and the open air.

They sped down the castle’s winding path, stealing kisses and snatching at each other’s hands, the town glistening overhead. The surrounding countryside no longer bore the wounds of conflict from past. Streets once gouged by wheel tracks and giant footprints were now filled and paved. Derelict houses and skeletal estates were fully-repaired and standing sturdy. Changing the past was impossible, and the marks it’d left behind lay buried in places no one touched. But prosperity had taken root, slowly budding up from the ground and growing strong.

The Sun Tree, which they arrived at completely winded, was the best and brightest testament to this. Bare though it was due to the season, it stood proudly in the middle of the town square, branches covered with strings of delicate beads and various globes of colored glass. The lowest branches and even some roots bore thick pieces of paper hung on ribbons with words for lost loved ones or prayers to Pelor.

“It's nice to see it still standing,” Percy murmured.

“Mm.”

“...I never asked,” he continued, “but what should I call you after we’re married?”

“What?”

“I only meant that if you’d prefer to be referred to in public as ‘Lady Vex’ahlia, Baroness of the Third House of Whitestone and Grand Mistress of the Gray Hunt, Slayer of the Frigid Doom’, I’d be willing, but it is a bit of a mouthful.”

“Percival, you are ridiculous.”

“I blame you entirely. Your influence has given me a sense of humor.” Feet crunched in the snow. “So?”

“Let’s see now. …‘Vex’, 'dear', or ‘darling’ for every day, of course.”

“Of course.”

“‘My Jewel’ for Sundays—”

“I thought you preferred gold.”

“One is as good as the other. Besides, I don’t know a nickname including the word ‘gold’ that’d make sense.”

“Ah.”

“And…‘goddess divine’, but only on very special occasions.”

“Casual blasphemy?”

“I’m sure Sarenrae won’t mind pet names.

“I’m certain she won’t,” he said, kissing her hand soundly. “And what should I call you when I’m angry? ‘Mrs. de Rolo’?”

“No! No. You...are only to call me ‘Mrs. de Rolo’ when you are perfectly and indescribably happy.”

A rush of air floated out of his mouth in plumes as he laughed. “...And how are you this evening, Mrs. de Rolo?”

Freezing fingers brushed her cheek, replaced with a pair of warm lips soon after.

“...Mrs. de Rolo.”

A kiss for her forehead. One on her nose, for each eyelid, for the other cheek. Over and over, the name repeated until it was a mere whisper, breathed like a prayer. Toe to toe, her palms pressed flat against his chest, his hands so careful and gentle as they cradled her face. A pair of hearts beating only for only each other, haloed in light and snow.

He balanced a few fingers and a thumb in her chin. “Mrs. de Rolo…”

They lost themselves in this final kiss; one that could’ve lasted an eternity and not been long enough. But for now, they settled for a good minute, and the breathless laughter that followed.


End file.
